


Til We Ain't Strangers Anymore

by iamthemagicks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-06
Updated: 2011-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-25 18:42:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthemagicks/pseuds/iamthemagicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Lisa sees him, it's on a Sunday and he's driving a classic black car through the neighborhood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Til We Ain't Strangers Anymore

The first time Lisa sees him, he’s driving a classic, black car (Impala she sees on the trunk) and it’s Sunday morning. She’s out at the mailbox, in her shorts and tank top, a light robe that reaches her knees. It’s a cool spring morning, picturesque actually. The way the breeze blows through her hair, the smell of Mrs. Chandler’s blooming jasmine, and the fresh cut grass.

And then the car comes down the street; she feels the purr in her chest and her thighs twitch, her heart jumps a beat as he slows, passing her house. He gives her a nod, a little hand wave. She smiles and waves back, and he drives off. She thinks about the car; it’s familiar, like maybe a boyfriend from college, or even high school. Or a neighbor she had a crush on.

The next Sunday she sees him again and gets the same greeting, but he’s a little slower driving by, gives her a once over and she shakes her finger at him, but is smiling. He chuckles and keeps going. My God he’s an attractive man. But there’s also something familiar about him, in his eyes, the shape of his nose.

This happens on more Sunday and she thinks of asking him to stop, of finding out his name, but he never fully stops.

 

Then Ben is away for the weekend and Maggie drags Lisa out to McLean’s Bar. It’s smoky and old country music plays on the jukebox. They order beers and eat greasy cheesy fries. “When was the last time you got out?” Maggie asks, ordering another round.

She shrugs. Things have been…odd…since the car accident, everything, her whole life out of place. Maggie had to drive states away to pick up her and Ben, because there wasn’t a car there. Lisa didn’t have a scratch on her, neither did Ben. And there were the dreams. Of black-eyed people, of the taste of salt on the back of her tongue. Ben has nightmares. Neither of them says anything about it, but sometimes she lets him sleep in her bed, after he wakes up screaming.

“Lisa!” Maggie nudges her under the table. “That guy has been staring over here for the last hour.” She nods in the direction of the bar. Lisa checks and it’s THAT guy. Classic car, leather jacket. Pretty eyes. He looks away.

“Don’t wait up for me, Mags.”

She struts across the floor with purpose, wishing that she had picked out something a little more sexy than just jeans and a blue halter top, jean jacket over her shoulders. She stops in front of him, leaning against the bar. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re following me.”

“That right?” His voice is gravel rough and it makes her spine tingle. Like no one else has.

She quirks her brows up and takes a seat. He looks away for a second, down at his shoes, pushes around the bottle. “Sorry,” he says. “I was just…swingin’ by to check on an old friend.”

“Girlfriend?”

A panther grin as he looks up. “No.”

“Buy me a drink.” She blinks slow, wets her lips. Lets her tongue stick out a bit. Once upon a time, she’d been good at this. Too good.

He exhales through his nose, flags down the bartender for a second round. She sips at the bottle. “I’m Lisa,” she says.

A slightly pained expression quickly passes over his face. And she has the greatest urge to run her hands down his cheeks, to thread her fingers through that dark hair, kiss his temples and tell him it’s going to be okay.

“Dean,” he answers. Dean. The name rings in her head. She’s said it before, she feels it against her lips. The four letters that make one name. Hard D, soft N. Someone she met in college. She took him to her loft. They didn’t get out of bed for four whole days.

Lines crinkle around his eyes when he smiles; even in the dim light, she sees a spray of freckles over his nose, his cheeks. They swap stories about cars, and crappy movies. They share a basket of those cheesy fries. Maggie leaves but tells Lisa to text if the guy tries anything funny. After two more beers, she’s feeling a bit buzzed. She checks her watch. “Well, Dean,” she says. “My ride left.”

He grins, pulled to the side. Leans back on the stool, legs parted a bit. “Did she?”

“Yes. Quite sad, really. How do you wager I should get home?”

“I wonder.”

The car smells exactly as she remembers. And she’s not sure what that means. The leather, gun powder. Something metallic under it all. Part of her thinks this is crazy. Taking home some guy who could quite possibly be stalking her. The other part of her feels safe around him. Like they’ve met before, that they were together in another life time.

They barely make it inside the door before she turns to kiss him, desperate to taste those pink lips, bite at thick tongue. She pushes off his jacket and it drops to the floor, wiggles her hand down his side, down to his jeans to palm at the erection she finds.

“You got…” he stutters. “You got a kid?”

She glances back at the picture of Ben on the wall. “Don’t worry, he’s gone for the weekend.”

He swallows. “Good.” Then takes charge, hoisting her up, gripping tight to her thighs as he carries her up the stairs. It’s like he knows the house, because finds the bed room straight-away. Gets her on the bed.

This has happened before, in the back of her mind; his weight is familiar, the feel of his hips pressed against her, his hands dragging down her sides, grabbing her ass. She mmms into his mouth, at that tongue against hers and she fucking wants him. Her body sparks, her body needs.

She goes for the belt, the zipper, sticks her hand into his pants.

“Whoa, babe,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna…we’re not gonna have much fun if you get me off now.”

She raises her eyebrow at the challenge. That grin returns and he takes her arm, kisses her wrist, tracing over her tendons and bones. The fine line of her vein up to her palm. He’s done that before. They were in the kitchen, at a different house, and he kissed up her arm. Tasted her skin. Told her he was sorry about something.

He’s working open her jeans, smoothing his hand over her stomach, her thighs as he drags off the pants. He mouths at her cunt through the material of her undies. He’s tender and slow, like he’s trying to memorize her body, but he all ready knows it. Tongue dipped in her navel, his lips against her c-section scar.

He gets her off with his mouth first; velvet tongue, his teeth scrape just ever slightly against her clit. “Sweet Jesus,” she moans. When she orgasms, white behind her eyes, her body on fire, she sees more. Him downstairs making breakfast. Out in the garage fixing her car.

She takes off her top as he stands. He pauses, just staring at her, that sad look in his eye again. She pulls her wobbly legs up, and crawls to the edge of the mattress to him. “What’s wrong?” she asks, kissing along his ribs.

“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, puts his fingers through her hair. “You’re just…so beautiful.”

The moon light shines blue over him and she stands to take off his shirt, to reach and help him out of his pants. There are scars on his body, and she knows where they all are; bullet near his hip, scratches along his rib. She traces her tongue over a pentagram tattoo on his chest.

She’s on her back and he’s over her, staring intently at her. One hand runs up her arm, entwines their fingers. So intimate, like they were all ready lovers.

She traces his lips, still wet and shining from her, presses her palm against his cheek and he leans into it, kisses her skin. Licks at the lines, over her past, her future.

He rolls on a condom and slides into her in an easy and long stroke and it’s like it’s meant to be; the way he fills her, stretches her open. The perfect fit, like a loading a bullet into a gun. “Okay?” he asks.

“Yes.”

It feels so fucking good as he starts moving, thrusting at a perfect angle; he takes one of her legs to wrap at his waist. But with each thrust, she remembers something else. Like waking up from anesthesia. It’s blurred at first, but she met him in 1998, at a bar. They were kids, stupid, reckless kids. There was no condom, just the warm and jolted sensation of his come inside of her. And then there was Ben.

He bites her neck, rolls his hips, breathes out her name like a prayer into her ear. “Lisa, Lisa, Lisa,” he says.

Ben being kidnapped. Dean showing up at her door. Sam died, he had no where else to go. She held him in the doorway while he cried.

He holds her hand tighter, rests his forehead against her collar bone, licks at the sweat gathered there, nips at the skin.

Then it all comes crashing down, everything over that year played in a split second. The disjointed pieces of her life, falling back in place. Her head hurts and she yelps, running her nails down his back, over his spine. He speeds up, just how she likes it.

“Dean,” she says. “Dean.”

“Yeah?” He pulls back and stops a second. Brushes a strand of her hair away from her face. “Too fast?”

She shakes her head, arches her hips. Tears in her eyes as she studies his face. Worn, tired. Sad. “You, asshole.”

“Excuse me?”

“You fucking, asshole.” She takes his face, and brings him down for frantic kisses; she devours that mouth, those lips and that tongue. He starts moving again, long hard strokes, gets her off a second time. She bites his lip when he comes, swallowing his moan.

The air between them grows hot and she cradles his face in between her hands. Runs her thumb over his bottom lip. “You’re an asshole.”

“Dude,” he starts. And she knows this tone of voice. “I thought—”

“Dean Winchester,” she says. He didn’t give her the last name. But she knows it, like a tattoo across her heart. Stuck against her ribs.

His face freezes. He’s been caught; he’s never been able to lie to her. Just omit things. “Lise…”

She doesn’t know whether to punch him or cry. He ducks his head, holds his breath. He’s shaking. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

He kisses her palm again. “Everything. I couldn’t stay away.”

The world is exploding and her head throbs, but she just kisses him. All over the face, his mouth, his eyelids. Presses her hand against the scar on his shoulder. “I’m going to yell at you in the morning,” she says.

He nods.

They dress. Well, she changes into a t-shirt, one that she now recognizes as his. She had found it in the dresser after the ‘accident.’ He pulls back on his boxers, his shirt. Dean lies on his side of the bed, and she curls against him, so close. Inhales his smell. He tangles his fingers in her hair. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

“Shh…in the morning.”

Like before, he falls asleep first. Oh she’s going to give him hell in the morning. Hell and then some. There’s a good hour and half worth of yelling. But now, for right now, she revels. Pieces finally back in place, ocean finally calmed.


End file.
